


A kiss...

by Wrathofscribbles



Series: Kisses... [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 18:45:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16143248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: ... for comfort.





	A kiss...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StrongheartMaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrongheartMaid/gifts).



> **Big bold reminder that Final Fantasy XV and all of its content is property of Square Enix.** I just like to play in the sandpit they've created for the fans.
> 
> If this looks familiar to you, that's because it is. This used to be part of a multi-chapter pain-in-my ass, but I've decided to take that down and make every chapter a standalone oneshot. Apologies for any confusion caused.
> 
> Prompts are from [this list](https://wrathofscribbles.tumblr.com/post/177169224758/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-i-will-write-a).

The first time Ignis uses magic, he is twelve years old and patiently shadowing Noctis _everywhere_ when he’s free of his studies, enjoying the time with his friend but also watching him, carefully, sneakily, ready to pounce on any sign that Noct’s strength is faltering or there’s a spike in pain from his back again, a lingering curse from the daemon attack a year ago.

He is twelve years old and so _furious_ he could cry, hands balled up into fists at his sides as he listens to the Glaives outside the door, speaking in hushed tones that carry anyway because the TV is off and Noct’s playing one of those handheld games with the volume down low so Ignis can read in peace.

Except he’s not reading.  Not anymore.  Not now that he stands frozen on his way to getting fruit juice and biscuits for a snack to share, eyes wide and going wider until he’s sure they’ll pop out of his skull and knock his glasses askew.  They call him a _cripple_.  They question his ability to lead.  They pity the state of Lucis when their Prince is only a boy _almost killed by one of the daemons they obviously couldn’t slay when they were beyond the Wall_ and the pressure in his head is blinding, all-consuming, overriding sense and decorum and he raises his hand to throw something, anything, at the door, to yell at them to shut up, to call them names and find the heaviest thing he can lift and bludgeon them with it until they learn some respect, to punch and kick and claw in his friend’s defense and -

It takes a moment to slide past the rage and _click_ in his brain what he’s seeing.

\- his hand is on fire.

His _hand_ is on _fire_.

Ignis screams.

* * *

“The Glaives?”  He asks in a quiet voice some time later, after the chaos has fizzled out and the panic is over.  He has his hands firmly locked together in his lap, tense and frightened and wanting so desperately to flee the room and escape the _look_ His Majesty is giving him, but he can’t very well abandon Noctis.  Not until he knows those - those _people_ are dealt with.

“They won’t be bothering either of you again,” the King says, soft and kind and with a smile on his face that should probably make Ignis feel at ease but really doesn’t because _his hands were on fire_.  And he could have killed someone.  Or worse, he could’ve hurt Noctis.

“You _killed them?”_ Noctis squeaks from beside him - smooshed up against him like a second skin, really - and Ignis’s stomach flops over at the thought.

“They’ve been removed from active duty pending investigation, and their access to the Citadel revoked.”  Clarus’s face looks a bit like Noctis’s did that time he bit into a lemon, like he isn’t fond of this solution.  Neither is Ignis, but then he’s only twelve, what does he know about suitable punishment for badmouthing one’s future King?

“And uhm... what - what about me?”

“What about you, Ignis?”

“Shouldn’t I - be taken away?  I put Noctis in danger.”  He chances a glance at His Majesty again, bracing for his agreement even as Noctis squawks in protest and lands in his lap in a flail of limbs and outrage and arms that lock around his neck as though his strength alone will keep them together.

“No you didn’t!”

“But I did.”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Noct -”

And over the bickering, over the struggling to free himself from his friend’s tenacious, wiggly grip, the King _laughs_.

“Oh dear boy, I don’t think you could hurt Noctis even if you tried.  Not with his own magic.”

_Wait what?_ They both freeze.  Share an equally confused look (and he almost goes cross-eyed in the process because Noctis is _right there_ , nose to nose with him), and then to His Majesty, and back again.

“Huh?”  Noctis says, and Ignis, finally succumbing to the stress of the afternoon, can only parrot him, all coherent thought departing his brain at record speed.

* * *

“What does this mean, Regis?”

“It means Noctis has come into his magic younger than I was expecting, younger than most of our line.”

“And Ignis?  Surely you could tell that was no candle flame cupped in his palm.  He could have burned the room down.”

“Could have, Clarus.   _Could have_.  Ignis has more self-control in his little finger than I did my entire body at his age.  And Noctis trusts him, so much so that they’re already bonded.”

“But _at their age?_ Is this wise?”

“Does it matter?  We can’t change it now.”

* * *

The daemons screech and writhe and _burn_ around him but Ignis pays them little mind, kicks them aside when they roll into his path and skewers a few others with his lance when they make a grab for him.

Noctis, beaten and bloody and chained to metal beams with arms outstretched like a sacrificial lamb welcoming his own slaughter, is his only priority now.  Awake, head lolling back like it would roll right off if not for its connection to his neck, one eye swollen shut, his face a patchwork of bruises and lacerations he’s certain will leave scars even with magic’s help.  A jagged tear from the corner of his mouth, widening it into a macabre mimic of his usual grin, burns around his _throat_ , and fury surges white-hot through Ignis’s veins, as potent and deadly as the power of Kings he’d wielded against Ardyn.

And oh, how he wishes he could bring that sack of shit back if only to grind him dust once more.

Searing pain on his arm - the fire, hissing and spitting and raging against his control - and he yanks his shirt off with a few deft tugs, tosses it aside rather than try to stomp out the flames.  Time is precious and fast running out, he can worry about a change of clothes later.

The unholy grind of metal on metal stirs Noctis from whatever place between he’d been resting, aware of his surroundings and yet not, and his one good eye settling on Ignis is _intense_ to the point of a physical touch stirring the hair at the nape of his neck.  He affords his lover a glance, just one, calling on yet more fire to weaken the chain links holding Noct’s elbows in place, ice on too-pale skin to protect it from the blazing heat.

“Lookit you... saving the day... w’all... theatrics.”

“As if you’d have it any other way, Noct.  Do you think you can walk?”  Impossible to tell what damage might be done to his legs, pants intact and concealing in the play of light and shadow afforded by the inferno spreading up the walls and along the ceiling.  Still listening to his command for now except for that stray touch to his shirt, but not for long.  It’s a hungry thing, this destructive magic, wants to devour _it all_ , caster and creator and daemon alike.

_Such is the strength of his rage._

“... Tendons.  S’ can’t... crawl.”

_No escape_.  So this would have been his final resting place, if Ardyn had had his way.

“I’ll carry you, then.  We’re getting out of here, Noct, I swear it.”

* * *

Carry him he does, Noctis’s scream when he’d dropped from the restraints still ringing loud in his ears, even when Gladio and Prompto catch up.   _Especially_ when they catch up, uncertain he can trust his temper if the transfer of Noctis between their arms causes him to cry out again.

He walks as fast as he dares, and yet for all the care he takes, Noct’s breathing still hitches with every second or third stride, stops entirely when he’s jostled going up the stairs. _So many fucking stairs_.  Words pour from his mouth, nothing and everything and nonsense in between, detailing the events since Altissia, the fight with Ardyn, Lady Lunafreya’s voice and the visions, “I love you”s, “almost there”, over and over again, all in an effort to distract Noctis from whatever pain rattles through him.  Cold in his arms, a stark contrast to the heat of his blood where it’s slick between them, and Noctis is so _quiet_.

It’s the first time Ignis _truly_ feels dread.

* * *

Zegnatus burns behind them and Noctis stirs once on Aranea’s airship, weak and straining to open his eyes, name a broken whisper on his lips and Ignis lays a hand on his wrist, as light as he can manage, careful of the broken fingers and neat _incisions_ stamped up the length of his forearm.

“I’m here, Noct.  Rest now, you’re safe.”

He places a kiss to Noctis’s forehead and a murmur at his ear, reassurance and promise both.

_“I’ve got you.”_


End file.
